Hello dear readers,
Yes, still alive, enjoying the benefits of permanent austerity and Ed Milliband's continuing impersonations of Marcel Marceau. (Sorry if my references are dated, but that's what happens when you reach a certain age - like with rocks, calcification occurs).
In the field of Great War remembrances, I came across Nigel Farage's enlightened take on 1918 in the Guardian today. It seems the voice of UKiP has come to the mesmerising conclusion that the war should have been fought for another six months to guarantee Germany's unconditional surrender. This, he argues, would have put paid to the notion that the nation had been stabbed in the back, which underpinned Hitler's rise.
Well, aside from that only being one facet of Hitler's ascension (hm, economic conditions might have been a touch more immediate and pressing), it is the most absurd sort of historical theorising. Really, he should keep to his message of 'too many immigrants' and not branch outside of his ken, as he doesn't seem to realise that hindsite is one of those games we can all play rather well.
I imagine Mr Farage has a few more historical cards up his sleeve:
1 - John Kennedy should have avoided Dallas in November, 1963 - or at least have been leaning slightly more to his left while driving in the motorcade
2 - Cunard should have opted for the slightly more expensive rivets for the Titanic
3 - Nate Fitzgerald should have opted for butter chicken instead of the beef vindaloo Sunday last (I believe I have violated the warranty on my sphincter)
4 - England should have scored more goals and allowed fewer in the last World Cup, which would have improved their chances of winning the championship
5 - And of course, someone should have killed Hitler in 1923
Clearly Mr Farage's insights show he is highly capable of making pivitol history-changing decisions in the future when the people of Britain elect him to the highest office in the land. Then again, he couldn't do much worse than the lot of toffs we've got in there now.
Have I missed any good historical observations? Why not leave a comment?
Stay well dear readers,
Nate
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
Friday, March 28, 2014
Jack the Lad
Hello dear readers,
Well, I think we've all been mourning this week with the demise of Wedgewood Benn. While the degree to which he pursuits certain ideas could sometimes lack the pragmatic touch needed at the moment in time (nationalisation of the banks, for instance), he was true to himself, not to mention always out of step with modern times in that he actually believed in something.
At least we on the left still have Ed Milliband. We do still have Ed Milliband, right? I mean, the economy isn't exactly ticking along, the Shard apparently has an inbuilt magnet that draws economic migrants from Eastern Europe and George Osborne still has all the charm of a constipated deer tick, so surely it's easy pickings for the Leader of the Opposition.
Paging Mr Milliband...
My other insight for the week involves flossing. Why of all the oral hygeine-related tasks is it so hard to adhere to? I mean, it doesn't take a great deal of time, and the benefits are clear. Is it the blood? Does it feel too much like we're throttling a piglet every time we grip and pull tartar and assorted foodstuffs?
Oh, and finally, rather most excitedly, on the lady front, I had a bit of a snog with someone from work. We had drinks and a Chinese and I managed to cram my face into hers briefly as we parted. You may indeed call me Jack the Lad. Mind you, I can't kiss and tell (though to some degree, I realise I have done just that...) but we shall see how things transpire.
Another good question: why do I perspire when aroused? Is this normal? Do others? Surely this can't be a positive genetic trait, unless it's designed to provide a pheromonial signal that I am an acceptable mate. If any science types out there are reading, please do leave a comment.
Stay well,
Nate
Well, I think we've all been mourning this week with the demise of Wedgewood Benn. While the degree to which he pursuits certain ideas could sometimes lack the pragmatic touch needed at the moment in time (nationalisation of the banks, for instance), he was true to himself, not to mention always out of step with modern times in that he actually believed in something.
At least we on the left still have Ed Milliband. We do still have Ed Milliband, right? I mean, the economy isn't exactly ticking along, the Shard apparently has an inbuilt magnet that draws economic migrants from Eastern Europe and George Osborne still has all the charm of a constipated deer tick, so surely it's easy pickings for the Leader of the Opposition.
Paging Mr Milliband...
My other insight for the week involves flossing. Why of all the oral hygeine-related tasks is it so hard to adhere to? I mean, it doesn't take a great deal of time, and the benefits are clear. Is it the blood? Does it feel too much like we're throttling a piglet every time we grip and pull tartar and assorted foodstuffs?
Oh, and finally, rather most excitedly, on the lady front, I had a bit of a snog with someone from work. We had drinks and a Chinese and I managed to cram my face into hers briefly as we parted. You may indeed call me Jack the Lad. Mind you, I can't kiss and tell (though to some degree, I realise I have done just that...) but we shall see how things transpire.
Another good question: why do I perspire when aroused? Is this normal? Do others? Surely this can't be a positive genetic trait, unless it's designed to provide a pheromonial signal that I am an acceptable mate. If any science types out there are reading, please do leave a comment.
Stay well,
Nate
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Who shot the deputy?
Hello dear readers,
Well, tonight's cultural exchange group at my flat must be pronounced a smashing success. We had our highest attendance yet, with six persons of mixed nationality (two Poles, one Scot)and for once everyone brought a bottle or plate to the evening. While cheese and biscuits are not especially dear, I really was beginning to get steamed at the zeal and active hands of some members.
My contribution was a probing insight into Eric Clapton's 'I Shot the Sheriff', a song which has perplexed me on and off for decades. Did the protagonist in fact shoot the deputy and create the narrative as an elaborative, jauntily paced ruse; or is he indeed being 'set-up' by the law enforcement/legal establishment and the sheriff who he admits winging (with what I image to be a Saturday Night Special)?
At first, one is swayed by the pleading tone of the lyrics, but then, subconsciously, I believe one shifts to suspicion, largely due to the faux-Jamaican accent and the load of associations with violence and that particular Caribbean nation.
When I realised I was feeling this way, I consciously recognised my in-built cultural prejudice and went back to the evidence of the crime, which admittedly, is sparse. Really, it's just one person's point of view. The song may have been better served by giving the sheriff a chorus or full verse to argue his side of the story and refute the slanderous charges against him. It could have been a Sonny and Cher 'I've Got You Girl' sort of arrangement.
Of course in the greater picture, one has to question why Eric Clapton chose to adopt a faux-Jamaican voice and the kettle drums etc. After all, he was born in Surrey, which to international readers, isn't exactly Kingston lite. It strikes me as a type of musical blackface; but then, he did record the song in the 70s, and we weren't far removed from Peter Seller's riotous turn of bigotry in The Party or Spike Milligan.
When one of the gents mentioned the song was written by Bob Marley, admittedly, it took some wind out of my argument. I asked if he was next going to tell me that John Lennon's ripping 'Cold Turkey' isn't really about the dangers of leaving Christmas leftovers a bit too long. From experience, cold turkey has had me on the run more than once (though ham is often a more likely culprit).*
*This is a joke. I know the song is about heroin. I'm not actually an idiot.
Have a favourite song? Why not leave a comment.
Stay well, Nate
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Blog truncation
Greetings dear readers,
Actually, given that I have ceased adding to this blog for an extended period of time, I should probably say, greetings whomever you are who has stumbled onto my website. But should there be any old acquaintances from the days when I would pen three to four missives about my miserable life per week (and be mentioned in the Drudge Report), a most warm and hospitable welcome back.
I am very well, in general. You may notice, however, that I have severely truncated the contents of the blog, leaving only a smattering of superlative fiction (never completed), the odd reflection, and highlights from my trip to Bath with my elderly neighbour Mrs Donaldson. I believe I have culled all mentions of wanking, which while scientifically proven to reduce a man of my advanced age's chances of prostate cancer, is viewed as vile filth in many corners of respectable society. And given that the government insists we're all pulling together and dead keen about society in this country once again(despite the same lot pronouncing it DOA not three decades ago) I am acquiescing.
Now, you're no doubt thinking, 'Nate, get on with it'. Well, my cull is not due to fears of GCHQ intrusion into my affairs (too late, as they've no doubt already found a way to read my thoughts and yours), but rather to professionalism. Yes, dear readers, after several years toiling three nights per week in a poorly insulated caravan at the meat distribution plant which employs me, I have been promoted. I am now some sort of assistant manager in the main office, day shift. I'll have to look at the contract again to see what silly title they actually appointed me. My desire is 'King of Meat' or 'God of Paperwork' but it's no doubt coordinator of something or other. I lose my meal allowance (they were being phased out anyway) but will get to partake in occasional conversation with other humans, which, as you may have guessed, I view as mixed blessing. I have also dusted off a few of my old ties. We live in exciting times.
So, as you can see, Cameron and Clegg's severe stigmatisation and throttling of the poor has seen a few green sprouts rise in the modern economy. We're likely now at the point we would have been in mid-2011 had Austerity not been pursued. Imagine, had Gordon Brown been a bit more lifelike during the last election, we would have a national postal service as well.
Please feel free to leave a comment. I may revive the blog should my new career path prove exciting (though I am wary of upper management snooping into my private affairs, so perhaps not. Who knows. Either way, it would be good to hear from you.)
Stay well, Nate
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
He added a splash of Glen Moray to his coffee. Yes it was 8.30 in the morning, but it wasn't like he was opening a purple tin. He simply liked the taste. You couldn't become an alcoholic from the odd nip of Scotch.
He looked at his reflection in the toaster.
Orwell had said every man got the face he deserved when he was 50. Kenneth had a few years to go, but he didn't expect the situation to get much better. His beard was kempt, though it had gotten a touch ratty since his redundancy. The wrinkles around his eyes spoke of loneliness. His hair was thin, but keeping up the fight.
What about people who had been bludgeoned, he wondered. Did they really deserve the face they got at 50. Say, one lived in a particularly rough section of Jo-burg or Detroit and was set upon by ruffians with iron bars. Would the mashed outcome of a rewired jaw and pulped nose be deserved?
Those who believed in karma might say yes. Kenneth decided it should go on a case by case basis. That is how he had always approached his work, taking each individual as they came. Though there were trends (the heavily tattooed ones tended to abuse the system - sorry, just a fact), but each person was a novel all their own to be opened and discovered.
But look where that egalitarianism had gotten him. Now he was a number in a category, one of many shuffling on worn shoes. He bet David Cameron dressed up at Maggie late at night at Number 10 and talked to an imaginary Dennis in a high-pitched voice, like an organ grinder's monkey which had swallowed vinegar.
No, this was not the face he deserved.
He added a splash of Glen Moray to his coffee. Yes it was 8.30 in the morning, but it wasn't like he was opening a purple tin. He simply liked the taste. You couldn't become an alcoholic from the odd nip of Scotch.
He looked at his reflection in the toaster.
Orwell had said every man got the face he deserved when he was 50. Kenneth had a few years to go, but he didn't expect the situation to get much better. His beard was kempt, though it had gotten a touch ratty since his redundancy. The wrinkles around his eyes spoke of loneliness. His hair was thin, but keeping up the fight.
What about people who had been bludgeoned, he wondered. Did they really deserve the face they got at 50. Say, one lived in a particularly rough section of Jo-burg or Detroit and was set upon by ruffians with iron bars. Would the mashed outcome of a rewired jaw and pulped nose be deserved?
Those who believed in karma might say yes. Kenneth decided it should go on a case by case basis. That is how he had always approached his work, taking each individual as they came. Though there were trends (the heavily tattooed ones tended to abuse the system - sorry, just a fact), but each person was a novel all their own to be opened and discovered.
But look where that egalitarianism had gotten him. Now he was a number in a category, one of many shuffling on worn shoes. He bet David Cameron dressed up at Maggie late at night at Number 10 and talked to an imaginary Dennis in a high-pitched voice, like an organ grinder's monkey which had swallowed vinegar.
No, this was not the face he deserved.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Official warning
Hello dear readers,
Well, a bit of excitement in my long dormant life. I have for the first time in my short professional life been OFFICIALLY WARNED.
It even came with letter sporting the header OFFICIAL WARNING, underlined, in bold. I'm not certain what happened to being subtle. I had a short meeting with my manager - my fifth since the start of my employment. But that's another story.
All I can say is if your name is Diana Ross, you're bound to get a few remarks of a jovial nature come your way. And if you're a pasty white woman of a certain age (mid 40s), you would think one might foresee the potential for irony and go by a different moniker. Perhaps Di Ross? Perhaps a middle name?
And if one were offended by what I'll admit were perhaps over frequent remarks such as 'How are the Pips today?' and 'I may ease on down, ease on down the road* for a sandwich, would anyone like one?' you would think the offended party would voice some sort of dissatisfaction and not lodge a formal complaint.
*remember that classic? still holds up
Not that anything is likely to come from my wrist slap. I will simply substitute comic overtures with withering looks of veiled contempt, which I have been practicing in my mirror while beard trimming. And any notion of a romantic night out is now most certainly off the books.
Yes, still single and looking.
Well, dear readers, it has been a long time since anything noteable or interesting has happened in my life. Read this as good or bad. Perhaps I shan't wait so long to communicate in future. Please leave some comments. I am still quite desperately lonely.
Stay well,
Nate
Well, a bit of excitement in my long dormant life. I have for the first time in my short professional life been OFFICIALLY WARNED.
It even came with letter sporting the header OFFICIAL WARNING, underlined, in bold. I'm not certain what happened to being subtle. I had a short meeting with my manager - my fifth since the start of my employment. But that's another story.
All I can say is if your name is Diana Ross, you're bound to get a few remarks of a jovial nature come your way. And if you're a pasty white woman of a certain age (mid 40s), you would think one might foresee the potential for irony and go by a different moniker. Perhaps Di Ross? Perhaps a middle name?
And if one were offended by what I'll admit were perhaps over frequent remarks such as 'How are the Pips today?' and 'I may ease on down, ease on down the road* for a sandwich, would anyone like one?' you would think the offended party would voice some sort of dissatisfaction and not lodge a formal complaint.
*remember that classic? still holds up
Not that anything is likely to come from my wrist slap. I will simply substitute comic overtures with withering looks of veiled contempt, which I have been practicing in my mirror while beard trimming. And any notion of a romantic night out is now most certainly off the books.
Yes, still single and looking.
Well, dear readers, it has been a long time since anything noteable or interesting has happened in my life. Read this as good or bad. Perhaps I shan't wait so long to communicate in future. Please leave some comments. I am still quite desperately lonely.
Stay well,
Nate
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Writing
Her name was Creamery Butter and she was a dancer.
That's certainly better than Margaret, he thought. Not that there's anything wrong with Margaret. Though likely, the Margarets of the world might have to try a touch harder than the lithe creature gyrating so close he could feel the heat from the burning sticks she was waving seductively.
He supposed the risk of third degrees burns added to the sensuality.
Mind you, he wasn't certain of much. He looked around the dim confines with its glowing florescence and dark corners. The drinks certainly were dear.
"Would you like a private show?" she asked.
"Yes, very much," he replied.
What would mother think if she were alive?
That's certainly better than Margaret, he thought. Not that there's anything wrong with Margaret. Though likely, the Margarets of the world might have to try a touch harder than the lithe creature gyrating so close he could feel the heat from the burning sticks she was waving seductively.
He supposed the risk of third degrees burns added to the sensuality.
Mind you, he wasn't certain of much. He looked around the dim confines with its glowing florescence and dark corners. The drinks certainly were dear.
"Would you like a private show?" she asked.
"Yes, very much," he replied.
What would mother think if she were alive?
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